I’m so tired of being the anchor. That’s what I am, you know. The damn anchor. For fifty years, it feels like. Someone always needs me, needs something from me. The kids, then their kids, then the old man, bless his heart, but god, the *demands*. Every single day. So I finally tried to do something for myself. Something quiet. Something where I could just… sit. Be. No one asking. No one calling. Just an hour. So I found this silent meditation class. Deep breathing, you know, all that. I’m not usually one for that kind of thing, but the idea of an hour of goddamn silence? Sign me up. I was in a deep stretch, this weird pretzel pose they had us doing, really trying to get into it. Trying to let go of everything, all the lists, all the things I had to remember for someone else. And then it happened. Just a little one. Not even loud, really. But it was *silent*. Pin-drop silent. And I felt it. Everyone felt it. And I just froze. My face. I could feel it burning. Mortification. Real, honest-to-god mortification. And then the thought hit me – after all this time, all the crap I've put up with, all the indignities, *this* is what finally breaks me? A goddamn fart in a silent yoga class? It's just… it’s the indignity of it all. I’ve handled worse. So much worse. So much more important. So many things that would absolutely crush a normal person. And I've always just kept going. Kept the ship afloat. For everyone else. Always. But this? This little, stupid, bodily function thing? It just sent me over the edge. I wanted to just stand up, right there, in the middle of that room, and scream. Just scream until my throat gave out. Scream about all of it. All the years. All the quiet sacrifices. All the times I held my breath for someone else. But I didn't. I just held the pose. And tried not to cry. Because even then, even *then*, someone would have noticed. And I can’t have that. Not ever.